


Exposure

by sparks-fly (thirdtimecharmed)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F, Lingerie, Porn, Red Romance, Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-16
Updated: 2011-08-16
Packaged: 2017-10-22 16:37:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/240150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thirdtimecharmed/pseuds/sparks-fly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who says tea parties are dull?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exposure

            At first, it all proceeds as normal. The two of you sit chastely across from each other, steam from the tea heating your face as you smile over at her. She is detailing the particulars of a gruesome customer interaction, eyes focused at some point on the horizon and nose wrinkled charmingly. You turn back to your tea, smiling, and set it down neatly in the saucer. Folding your hands under your chin, you direct your smile towards her, allowing her to finish before throwing in your two cents.

            “You know, Ms. Maryam,” you say, your tone light and teasing, “I have a complaint about one of your garments as well.”

            She eyes you suspiciously.

            “And what is it? I would be loathe to lose your patronage at this juncture in our relationship.”

            “As your client, of course,” you specify, quirking an eyebrow, “hopefully any other relationship would be safe from misguided outrage at ill fitting clothing.”

            “Naturally,” she assures, but her prim demeanor belies a more turbulent cocktail of irritation. Your smile turns almost predatorial.

            “I am, in fact, currently wearing the article in question,” you add, sipping your tea once more. She scans your outfit in a cursory manner, then frowns slightly, to your immense satisfaction.

            “I did not make any of your exterior wear,” she says hesitantly.

            “I am not discussing my outer wear,” you specify, not making eye contact and hoping she gets the message.

            “Ah, I see.”

            You glance up to see her eyeing you, studying your countenance eagerly.

            “Then what are you discussing?”   

            “My brassiere is a bit too tight, Ms. Maryam. I fear you have underestimated my... measurements.”

            She blushes then, coloring a soft green against her white blouse.

            “I was wondering,” you continue, “if you could take a look at it now.”

            You are a plotter. However while you may have worn this outfit intentionally, easily unbuttoned and unzipped, removable without thought or ceremony, and you may have planned this conversation to a ‘T,’ what follows will be virgin territory for the both of you. Fortunately, she seems less fazed by this than you are.

            “I don’t see any obstacles,” she allows, slowly pushing away from the table as you do the same.

            You surreptitiously wipe your palms on the back of your skirt and swallow, ignoring your racing pulse and hyperalert senses. Standing stiff as a board, you wait patiently for her to approach. As if she can sense your nervousness, she takes the scenic route, circling you and gazing intently.

          “Well,” you manage to quip, “have you seen all you need yet, or will another perambulation be required? Perhaps I could rotate in place to save you the effort?”

            It’s a weak shot and you both know it, so it is no surprise when she ignores it completely. 

            “You don’t appear to have any issues with the fit,” she remarks casually, “but if I am to assume you are being truthful, perhaps I just need to see it more clearly.”

            She steps toward you then, closing the minute distance between you both. Her breath is warm on your neck as she fingers your collar expectantly.

            “That is,” she adds, softer, “with your permission.”   

            You nod quickly, silently giving assent and she smiles, taking her time unbuttoning your blouse and sliding it off your shoulders. Her hands slide with it. This sends a not unwelcome chill down your spine as you stand, partially unclothed, in the well-lit drawing room of her home.

            She examines you more closely now, eyes scanning each seam of purple lace.

            “If you will forgive the brief foray from professionalism, I must take this moment to admire my own handiwork.”

            “I’m sure the general effect is marvelous, although for the most part it is lost on me.”

            “It is a pity. You will never really appreciate the true extent of my talents.”

            “If you would take the time to create something for yourself, perhaps the tragedy could be averted.”

            “You may be surprised there, but that isn’t the point of our exchange thus far. You say you have  a problem with the fit?”

           “Yes,” you swallow again, nerves overwhelming you briefly.

            “It looks flawless,” she informs you, although there’s no way she could know from her

position, whispering in your ear with her fingers knotting in your hair, “perhaps I should examine it more closely.”

         “Perhaps you should,” you say, and its all you have time for because suddenly her hands are running all over it, caressing the edge where your skin meets fabric, erasing most of your conscious thought as you’re lost to sensation. At first, the touch is careful, analytical, but it quickly loses all pretense as she traces aimless circles and patterns over your shoulder, around the back of your neck and across your chest.

          “The fit is perfect,” she says. She’s almost purring, a hand cupping your breast gently.

           “It still pinches,” you insist, every nerve on fire, screaming at you that whatever that was, it was good and you need more. Your spine is arched, your chest pushed farther toward her hand, and she’s been kissing your neck. Normally this would spark a quip about the vestiges of vampirism and a moan about the inevitable mark. Today you can only sigh softly as she breaks away to answer your complaint.

         “Well if it causes you discomfort...” her hands trace your back, “I suppose it must be removed.”

          The clasp is undone in an instant, and her hands are back, more insistent than before, pinching and tweaking and teasing in a flurry or desire. You forget yourself and moan, a tiny noise from the back of your throat that jolts you out of your stupor long enough for you to trap her wrists.

            “Now, before this goes too far Ms. Maryam, I believe we need to consider the equality of the situation. I appear to be the hoyden, while the fault lies completely with you,” you murmur, forehead pressed to hers, “this playing field needs leveling.”

            With that, your eyes meet hers and you smirk, fingers already poised at her topmost button. You don’t wait for her agreement. You don’t wait, period, with your newfound desire at the reins, and her blouse is off, revealing the surprise.

            It’s white, not green, which startles you, but your thoughts are soon redirected. Her handiwork is evident in the clean lines, lacy sides, and plunging neckline. It’s exquisite, contrasting her grey skin perfectly, and it pushes her breasts up and out. The corset molds her figure into something more perfect than her usual hourglass form. All of this flits through your mind, but the only thought that escapes your lips is a practical complaint.

            “All of those laces, Maryam, to remove something that looks made for you,” you sigh, eyeing it in mock regret.

            “You can leave it on, if you prefer,” she offers, eyes glinting with an unspoken challenge.

            “And leave myself out of all the fun?” you respond, snaking your arms around her waist to find the perfectly tied bow at the top to immediately untie it. Piece by piece you undo the laces, kissing a new part of her with each fresh release. Throat, jaw, collarbone, cheek, the hollow at the base of her throat. As you remove the corset entirely, you plant a full kiss on her lips while your hands roam her newly exposed torso. One hand runs up and down her spine, your other reserved for the front, sliding between the two of you, over her stomach, between her breasts, tracing her collarbone. Still, you avoid the one place you know she wants you to touch, smirking through your kiss. As she realizes the game you’re playing, she joins in with relish. However, her strategy differs greatly. Instead of ducking, dodging, or teasing, she attacks. She thrusts forward, pinning your hand between you and worming her tongue into your mouth. It’s completely alien to you. No teasing, no dodging, just a lunge for what she wants. You are completely thrown off kilter, and it works without a hitch. Nearly against your will, your hand moves to caress her chest, tweaking an nipple almost playfully and she moans in approval, mirroring your actions as you do so.

            You would almost be content to stop everything here, to kiss and caress her forever and be kissed and caressed in return. However, your hormones dictate otherwise, and your hand slides persistently downwards.

            Novice that you are, you still know enough to edge towards your target. Instead you glide over her skirt, and edge under it, ever so slowly up the back of her thigh. You can feel her blush as you do so, and her gasp interrupts your kiss. For the briefest instant you both freeze, assessing the risks and benefits in a fraction of a second.

            The answer comes when she hikes her leg further up and cradles your own behind with equal verve. You laugh softly, lacking your usual mocking edge, and reach around to stop her with a wicked grin.

            “You can go first, Maryam,” you insist, running your hand up further, and she is immediately coerced into complying.

            With one leg wrapped around your waist, all of her balance is compromised and she falls backwards onto the table, scattering dishes everywhere with a resounding crash. As she is pinned under you, your hand is trapped under her, forced to fondle in one place until she shifts and you’re freed again. You take immediate advantage of this.

            Clumsily, frantically, you find the zipper to her skirt and remove it, not bothering with teasing or flirtation any longer. The game is nearly played out. You take the moment to realize that her lacy underwear matches the corset that lies discarded on the floor, before another idea takes over. Lace and silk beckons you, and you answer to the call, leaning over and taking an edge in your teeth, pulling down ever so gently. It slides off equally slowly and she sighs, urging you on in her mind, and in reality slowing you down. Once they’re gone, you toss them over your shoulder and they land somewhere unknown.

            As you lean over to kiss her again, she pauses in a break between kisses to chide you.

            “I will want those back, dear,” she admonishes gently.

            “We’ll find them,” you assure her, “but I don’t think they’re necessary right now, do you?”

            Another kiss silences any further protests, but it isn’t enough to satisfy you for long. You start to kiss down, over her neck and down her stomach, between the valley made by her breasts. Then you halt.

            You’ve never seen anyone so vulnerable. She is laid out before you, eyes shut, lips parted, legs spread in anticipation. Totally open, nothing closeted, and nothing secreted away. Her pure need ignites your own and you kneel, but not where she expects you.

            You start at her ankle, kissing slowly up her leg, over her calf, her inner thigh, making it all the way to the crease between mons and thigh before hopping over, working your way down her thigh, calf, back to her ankle. She groans and fidgets, raising herself off the table a bit, as if she was guiding you where she wanted. Grinning, you stroke up and down her thigh.

            “Now now, be patient,” you chide, and begin the process again. With each repetition, your kisses get wetter and sloppier, and you keep it up as long as both of you can stand. As her breathing speeds and becomes a heavy panting, you stop teasing.

            Your tongue slides between her lips and she gives an instant noise of affirmation. Entirely focused on your task, you spread her legs farther, stroking them gently as you tease around her clitoris, still not done withholding pleasure. This time, though, she will have nothing of that. Despite your restrictive caress, her hips buck towards you and your mouth latches almost inadvertently. Then, it’s unavoidable, and you succumb to your own need to please.

            And please you do, at least, if her distant moans and satisfied writhing are any indication. You know how to tease and tantalize, though this is your first try, and you let instinct lead the way as you lap and suck and nibble. All manner of techniques are tried, and most succeed, but the minute you try and briefly trail away you are met with the same imperious thrust and are again buried into your enjoyable task, until in a moment of clenched thighs and a sharp shock of breath it’s all over and she’s sliding off of the table to pin you down and kiss you deeply, licking the inside of your mouth the way you were just exploring her nether regions.

            Completely powerless against the sudden assault, you do the unthinkable. You concede. Something about allowing the flow of her passion to wash over you excites you even further, even as you fall back onto the hardwood paneling, pinned under her naked body. Your own tweed skirt is soon dealt with, and your purple panties are almost torn off in her hurried desire. She then proceeds to follow in your footsteps. Her tongue swirls down your throat, around your breasts, flicking your nipples and then moving maddeningly downward. Every inch of your inner thigh is kissed and licked and loved, and you whimper in delicious anticipation, but the expected doesn’t come. Instead her tongue follows the same path back up, and she kisses you once more.

      “Now,” she whispers, her lips an inch from yours, “I don’t want your patience, Rose.” Her hand strokes your thigh, another running down your waist. “I want something quite different.”

   Your eyes lock on hers in an unspoken promise. At this point, you would give her anything she wanted. 

            “I want you to ask me to,” she says, unable to hide her excitement.

            It’s the one thing she knows you wouldn’t give. You whimper, then, too far gone for all but the last scraps of dignity, and the hand on your waist slides up to caress your breast. The sudden warmth that floods you warns you of what you’re about to do.

            “P-please,” you stutter, flushing and now completely exposed. Just like that, with one word, it became more than your first sexual experience. Kanaya Maryam, with her feminine wiles and her teasing demeanor and her damnable seductive ability had made you ask. You had to abandon your subtle hints and doublespeak for a plain request. She knows this, and kisses you again, gentler.

            “It will be my pleasure,” she assures, before sliding back down your torso to satisfy your needs.

            If you had free room in your mind for thought, you would be embarrassed for yourself. You may have thought your performance satisfactory, but hers is exemplary. Instead of delicate glancing blows, she strikes forcefully with a powerful alien tongue, leaving no vague wish for more in your mind. You are hit with a wave of need for more, a certainty that the world will end if her ministrations ever cease. In what seems like an age and an instant, though, it is all over. With a final cry from you, fingers knotted in her hair, your need is finally extinguished. There is a pause.

            In the quiet, she moves smoothly back up to your level. Her cheeks are flushed, her hair is a mess and her lipstick is smudged dreadfully. She looks beautiful, and the two of you kiss again. The afterglow envelops you both as she rests her head on your shoulder.

            “I do hope you will not dash away immediately and leave me forlorn,” she says softly.

            “I wouldn’t dare, not after making such a disaster of your tea room,” you assure her.

            “Perhaps disaster is the wrong word,” she amends, tilting her head to grin almost wickedly at you, and you chuckle.

            “Perhaps not.” 


End file.
